


don't take this sinner from me

by beccabuchanans (vestigialwords)



Series: Olive Branches Universe [3]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Minor Character Death, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Unprotected Sex, light masochism (but no sadism), themes of grief, this was supposed to be a kinky public quickie but instead IT CAUGHT EMOTIONS, very much not-rough sex, workplace quickie, ♫ sex.u.al hea.ling ♫
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25151518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/beccabuchanans
Summary: You had watched helpless as your lover’s body dropped to the sand, a grenade detonating just yards away from his position. You had been nearly a hundred feet in the air at the time, surveying and calling out enemy positions from the helicopter, but you’d recognize his gait a mile away—strong, sure, confident, and then… limp on the ground.Swallowing your scream had taken every ounce of willpower in your body.
Relationships: Horacio Carrillo/Reader
Series: Olive Branches Universe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822000
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	don't take this sinner from me

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted by the lovely [1zashreena1](http://1zashreena1.tumblr.com) on tumblr who wanted the closet quickie I teased in [my Carrillo NSFW Alphabet](https://mandoplease.tumblr.com/post/618133928307523584/horacio-carrillo-nsfw-alphabet-pairing-horacio). This was originally posted on my tumblr [HERE](https://mandoplease.tumblr.com/post/620583615983763456/dont-take-this-sinner-from-me).

_Click.  
_

The deadbolt of the armory slams into place. On the other side of the heavy door, a dozen Colombian soldiers and one DEA agent scramble to finish the last of their duties for the day so they can go home, or to the bar, or wherever it is that they go when they’re not on the clock. Inside, it’s just you and the man you’ve allowed into your bed (and maybe more).

Adrenaline buzzes beneath your skin, blood burning like acid through your veins. On paper, the mission was a resounding success; Gacha had been neutralized. It should have been a cause for celebration, but the country wasn’t a lick safer and it hadn’t come without heavy casualties. You had helped load no fewer than five of Carrillo’s soldiers into heavy trucks for the long haul back to Medellín. Each of them had a family—a wife, a child, a girlfriend, a mother, someone waiting at home for a reunion that will never come.

There was a point during the mission when you thought you had become one of them. Except there wouldn’t be a contrite soldier appearing on your doorstep to press a folded flag into your hands. No service medal to display on your wall. No one to look twice at your grief. To the outside world, Carrillo is little more than your co-worker—one you butt heads with more often than not. So you had watched helpless as your lover’s body dropped to the sand, a grenade detonating just yards away from his position. You had been nearly a hundred feet in the air at the time, surveying and calling out enemy positions from the helicopter, but you’d recognize his gait a mile away—strong, sure, confident, and then… limp on the ground. 

Swallowing your scream had taken every ounce of willpower in your body.

When his voice crackled over the comms a few minutes later, you had made eye contact with Javi and hadn’t even tried to mask your relief. 

The post-mission briefing had been excruciating even though it had been mercifully brief. You were supposed to be focusing on the run-down of the operation, listening to the soldiers reporting back on their observations as they’d searched the mansion. The only thing your mind could focus on was the narrow rivulet of blood trickling down the side of Carrillo’s face. 

He had ducked into the armory to take inventory afterward—a task well beneath most colonels, but he was paranoid like that. He had to be certain that none of his men had pocketed a revolver, that every last piece of munition was returned to its designated slot and accounted for. You waited until the hallway was clear and slipped into the strong room behind him.

He’s standing in front of a gun rack with a clipboard and when he turns, stern professionalism gives way to confusion as you stalk toward him.

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here?” You pluck the clipboard from his hands and toss it onto one of the shelves, or maybe the floor, your hands curl into the waistband of his pants and tug him toward you. “I need you.” 

He follows without protest as you drag him toward the desk shoved into the corner of the room. His belt is familiar territory and your fingers dance over the buckle without thought, moving to drop the zipper underneath. Without warning, you shove your hands under the elastic band of his underwear and cup him in your warm hands. He hisses in surprise, his chin falling to his chest with a groan. His skin is like velvet and so goddamn far away even as he presses you against the sturdy desk. 

He was half-hard to begin with, but when you yank the fabric of his pants past his hips, lick a hot stripe up your palm and wrap your hand around him, his voice erupts from his chest in a growl. Heavy hands land on your hips and spin you around, his arms capturing you against the mass of his chest as he grinds himself against your ass. Deft fingers flick open the button of your jeans, and your breath is forced from your chest as his hands graze over your waist, land heavy at the center of your back and _push_ , forcing your torso flat against the cool surface of the tabletop beneath you.

“Do you know how often I think about bending you over this exact desk?” He muses, dazed, as though he’s barely registering his own thoughts. The heat of his gaze rakes down your back, and you crane your neck to look over your shoulder at him. His eyes are cast down at the bare skin exposed between your rucked up teeshirt and the waist of your jeans and he exhales, the corners of his lips curling up in the slightest smirk. One of his hands slides down your body to squeeze a solid handful of your ass. “Embarrassing. Before every goddamn mission, like I’m a fucking cadet again.” 

Before you can even respond, he drops to his knees just long enough to peel your jeans down your legs and unhook one of your ankles from the denim. He stands, one foot asserting itself between yours, but you beat him to it, widening your stance for him without provocation. A possessive growl vibrates out of his chest and you have barely a split second to adjust to the cool air of the armory against your skin—a mere moment to notice the way he takes himself in hand—before he plunges into you. His hands curl around on your hips and yank you back to meet him halfway, all but cleaving you in half. 

Your scream catches at the base of your throat, your body suddenly, violently full of him. There’s no time to adjust to the stretch of him before he retreats, slamming back into you even harder. 

“Is this what you wanted?”

Words are a distant dream in the wake of his hips slapping raw against the bare skin of your thighs. His hands are heavy and insistent at your back, pressing your breasts into the cool surface of the desk, and there’s no room to move between his hips and the solid metal of the desk itself. The desperation simmering deep in you finds a counterpart in his body as he thrusts deep into you.

“Couldn’t wait a few hours, could you?” he grunts into your ear. “Need it that bad?”

You clamber at the desk for something to grab on to but there’s nothing, no papers to crumple, no folders to sweep onto the floor, the open edge of the desktop too far away for your fingers to curl around. Resistance is futile; struggling is hopeless. You’ve taken a lover who can crack the hardest of criminals without breaking a sweat and now you face the consequences. He captures your flailing arms and twists them around your back, grinding you into the unforgiving surface of the desktop. He wraps one of his hands around both of your wrists, pressing your arms to the small of your back. 

You turn your head to press your forehead into the cool metal beneath your face. It grounds you, the hard pressure of the table, the uncomfortable tightness in your muscles, twisted and folded over an unyielding desk, the sharp jolts ravaging your core every time he slams into your body, battering the very center of you. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt a bit, but instead of replaying the way his body had dropped like a rag doll; instead of the vacuum that had been left in your chest when he fell to the ground, your agony finally, _finally_ finds a physical outlet. You can’t help but revel in the way your grief knits itself tightly with pleasure, anguish blooming into debilitating bliss. 

With each time he bottoms out, an abortive cry tears from your throat, desperate and wild. Too wild; too loud. Dangerous. His free hand wraps around your head and clamps over your open mouth, firm and warm, muffling your sobs against his calloused palm. He pulls toward his chest, arching your back up off the desk so that he can growl against your ear. 

“Quiet, honey. Someone will hear you.” 

His grip on your wrists loosens just enough to let you pull one of your arms away to brace yourself on the tabletop. It’s a kindness, a small one, but a mercy nonetheless. He has you strung taut like a bowstring and singing with the relentless pressure of him inside you.

Your muscles burn with the ache of holding yourself upright as he thrusts into you. He has you, completely. There’s no pretending like you belong to yourself right now, to anyone but him. You’re in his territory, on his turf, locked behind a heavy metal door in a dingy armory with one of the country’s most dangerous men, and you walked into all of it headfirst. There’s no playing coy, no playing like you weren’t desperate to be right where you are. No pretending like you haven’t surrendered yourself to him utterly and eagerly, gifted him the pliable form of your body without the slightest hesitation. He crashes into you, tears through your body, ripping the cries out of your lungs and into the meat of his hand, a tangled mixture of pleasure and pain and _relief_. 

“Shh,” Carrillo’s voice is a soothing counterpoint to the way he throttles your head back and squeezes your jaw as a warning. He’s right—the walls of the armory are thick, but they’re not soundproof. He buries his face in the space between your neck and shoulder. “God you take me so beautifully. Give you anything you want sweetheart, just… _hush_.”

His hands hold you in brutal submission and all you can do is take whatever he decides to give you. And he gives. And _gives_. The edge of the desk is almost certainly going to leave bruises on your hips but the pain is perfection. He’s alive to make those bruises, to put those marks on your skin, and that’s all that matters. 

The obscene wet slaps of your union saturate the tiny room as your eyes well with tears with the relief of being joined to him, from the sensation of his hands holding your prisoner, his body warm and throbbing inside you, his voice in your ear when you never thought you’d hear it again.

You reach up with the hand you have splayed out against the desk, and you drop slightly from the lack of support before he shifts quickly to compensate. He catches you; he always fucking catches you when you fall, and you hadn’t done the same for him and that’s the part that kills you. You clamber at his arm, tug his wrist to peel it away from your mouth. You’re not a weak woman by any means, but your attempts don’t move him an inch even as he adjusts to support the weight of you. 

“Can you stay quiet?” The rumble of his voice curls through you, permeating down to the most primitive corners of your brain.

You nod into his hand, breathing heavy against the heavy pressure of it. He lets go, dropping his hand to brace against the desktop next to you. 

“Please, Horacio,” your voice bursts out of you in a harsh whisper. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for. Nothing. Everything. It’s that or let loose the desperate wails bubbling over inside your chest, which is not an option. He burrows deep into you as though he’s trying to wrap himself with you, find himself a home, make himself an integral part of you, as though he isn’t already. You wrap the one hand you have free around his wrist, use the strong column of his forearm as leverage to shove yourself back on him. It’s the last thing you have left in the onslaught and the word becomes a mantra, _pleasepleaseplease._

“God, what—?” He groans through clenched teeth, losing his rhythm when your shifting weight throws him off balance. “What’s gotten into you, woman?” 

“Thought I lost you,” your voice cracks with the confession.

He stalls and the atmosphere shifts. The grip at your back loosens and he slips from you. You whimper at the loss of him, but a pair of assertive hands lift your torso up and turn you around to face him. He hefts you onto the desk and steps between your knees. His hands cup your cheeks, dark eyes searching yours, soft and concerned. 

“What?” His thumbs wipe away the tears from your face, and you follow the motion to press an open-mouth kiss to the heel of his palm. He tilts your face up to meet his eyes, searching you for an answer.

“I was in the chopper,” your voice leaves your throat in a weak rasp. He knows where you were, but you say it anyway. “I—I thought—” 

You cut yourself off. The rest is too horrible to voice. 

He exhales, and presses his forehead heavy into yours. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s—”

He leans over you and wraps his arms around your back, pulls your ass flush with the edge of the desk. He gathers your face into his chest, and you wrap your arms around him, gripping your own forearms and squeezing around him. He shifts between your legs and you feel him line himself with your entrance again. This time, he’s gentle, slow. He pushes you back slightly, adjusting the angle of you as he hovers over your body, then pushing, _pressing_.

“I’m sorry.” 

He seats himself inside you slowly this time and rocks against you with heart wrenching tenderness. You scramble at his back, your hands grasping at the crisp fabric as he rocks into you, steady and solid and perfect.

This time it’s his voice transformed into a steady chant— _I’m sorry, estoy aquí, mi amor, lo siento, I’m right here—_ a litany of apologies and affirmations slipping from his tongue as he rolls into you like waves lapping at the shore, his thrusts tender and confident, predictable and powerful, cleansing you of the horror of watching him drop, chasing away the shadow that eclipsed your soul just hours earlier. 

The seconds unfurl and expand into eons; minutes contract into an instant. Time means nothing in the gentle wash of his body against yours. The sounds that escape you, muffled against his chest—could be laughter; could be sobs; both; neither. It doesn’t matter.

He winds one of his hands between you and presses his thumb firm against the tight bundle of nerves nestled between you, and everything slots into place suddenly, without mercy. The waves of your pleasure crest as you scramble at his uniform, hands clenching tight in the fabric at his back, bliss and grief and joy rolled into one. He follows soon after, spilling himself inside you with a soft groan. 

He peppers your face with kisses as he lays you back against the surface of the table, leaning over you and bracing himself on his forearms, your bodies intertwined from head to toe. His shirt is ruined and rumpled, wet patches of tears soak the material at the center of his chest. You reach up for his face, your thumbs tracing the soft dimples in his cheeks as he smiles and presses a kiss to your lips. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” 


End file.
